Bocci. Bocci ball. Bowling on a lawn. That's what I was doing in that old photo. But strange. Usually you bowl with other people. Usually there's markings on the ground, a target ball to shoot from. In the photo, I'm just standing there in the middle of the lawn, facing the house. My house? God, I don't know whose house that is. It could be a field house, or a club house, and I'm playing bocci, a game I don't know how to play, have never, as far as I'm aware, ever played before in my life, and I'm hunched over, for all the world concentrating so hard that the tufts of hair sticking out of my ears start to curl and braid. Bocci. The hell? Somewhere I've never been. Was that even me? Looks like me. And the photo is hanging on my wall, so it must be me. Maybe a relative. I don't know anything any more. Growing old, allow me to tell you, is no picnic. It's no walk in the park, or ride on the roller coaster. It is, simply, a slide into your own marked grave, and you're watching yourself slide. Never grow old. That's my advice to you. Who are you again? And what's that ball you're carrying.
Well, whoever you are, I'd like you to meet my wife. Helen, meet... I don't know, I never met him. No, wait, ignore this woman next to me. Ignore the wife. I'm pretty sure I've never met her before. You like bocci? Great game. Used to play it all the time, before my back gave out. Damn back. Never grow old, that's my advice to you. It's not worth it.